I strike the potato peeler against the apple. The skin comes off in small, irregular discs that shoot into the sink and stick to the sides of the basin. Face up, face down: flecks of red and white. The naked fruit is wet in my hand.
Why should I bother to run a knife around the perimeter instead? Art in the kitchen? The curl breaks before it can even be called a curl and I gouge away too much of the good flesh. My mom can do it, though. I guess it takes practice.
Why should I have to peel this apple? Slice it and sprinkle cinnamon? They won't eat it any other way.
And I want them to. Eat it.
I open the tap and the pieces of peel pool in the drain's mouth. I'll run the disposal later, after I rinse the dinner dishes.
